Tastes In Common

McKenzie opened the door and nearly laughed when Sheena walked in like she owned the damn place. The realtor could tell right away this designer had no problem saying exactly what was on her mind. She needed the help though—three months on the market, zero offers. She tried to hand over the rundown but Sheena cut her off with some insane color scheme and vaulted ceiling nonsense. McKenzie blinked. "That's cute, but the numbers don't work." The back-and-forth got sharp fast. Every idea one had, the other shot down, voices rising, heels clicking like little insults on the hardwood. McKenzie finally threw up her hands. "Bedroom. Let's see if we can agree on one fucking thing." They stepped into the empty master, still sizing each other up, when Sheena made a crack about the wallpaper that actually matched what McKenzie was thinking. A tiny smirk cracked the tension. Then another. Soon they were admitting how tired they both were—late nights, endless client bullshit, zero time to get laid. Turns out both women played for the same team. The temperature shifted. McKenzie’s hand brushed Sheena’s hip, slow, deliberate. "Fuck the room," she muttered. "I’d rather taste what’s under that skirt." Sheena answered by sliding her palms up McKenzie’s blouse, unbuttoning just enough to free her tits, tongue circling one stiff nipple before sucking hard. McKenzie answered by dropping to her knees, yanking Sheena’s panties aside and dragging her tongue flat over a soaked clit. They took turns—lips on tits, mouths on pussies, frustration burning off in wet, greedy strokes—two career women finally blowing off steam the only way that felt honest.